


Lightning

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Adorable, Kid Fic, M/M, parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 02:45:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1180986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The real trick," he says, "is learning which types of coffee can be ground beforehand and frozen, and which must be ground fresh, for maximum intake enjoyment. This is a blend that freezes well, so we'll get it ground, please."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lightning

Of all the modern inventions John hates -- the list is as wide and varied as currents in the ocean, but somewhere near the top are cars with hydraulics and idiot drivers who turn the bass up so high the entire world goes shimmery with vibration -- fluorescent lights don't have much in the way of competition. He's a pilot: eyes are something he values the way a teacher values students, an engineer the mechanical wonders to play with. Eyes are not just a necessary part of life, but actively important to his employment, even if that's not so much any longer. He's always taken very good care of his eyes, as far back as eight years old, watching Blue Angels twist and turn like swimmers in a different kind of water, agile and plumed with dawn-gray smoke.

Fluorescent lighting _hurts_ , a dull throb that surrounds the eye-socket and sends a ping of warning into his sinuses, heralding the headache to come. They make him squint, half-blinded with lack of spectrum, and long for the softly golden glow of sunlight, his world turned dull and gray and _dirty_ , lost in the shadows of something John's never wanted, not as long as he's lived.

Sure, he does paperwork, probably as much as the desk-jockey job they'd offered him almost five years ago. 

But Atlantis doesn't have fluorescent lighting.

Squinting blearily, John maneuvers his cart around a pair of heavily made up, be-ringed girls who probably are a little older than their dress -- too short and too low, respectively -- indicates, pouring over the ingredients of a bottle of pickles.

John tries not to snicker and purposefully makes the back-left wheel squeak like a dying animal, just to see them jump. The organic fad amuses him -- he'd like to see these pampered princesses survive on MRE's for a few months -- although he agrees readily enough when Rodney refuses to shop at their local grocery store, instead directing them to the pricier, supposedly-better-quality market that's a little further away.

The girls give him a dirty look, rolling their eyes when they get a closed-mouth smile for their ire.

He picks up a jar of pickles after only a cursory look to make sure it's not the half-dill that Rodney prefers and John thinks are pretty disgusting, deciding on another jar of relish and some olives to go with it. Hot dogs are always good, no matter what Rodney says about trichinosis and nitrates, and... and there could be martinis in their future. Someday.

All right, so that's pretty unlikely. Especially since he knows Rodney will insist on the fresher, better quality olives from the bar he spied in the back.

The girls are still staring at him as he puts the olives back, and he raises an eyebrow. "Um," the shorter, redder of the two says, eyes on his chest. "Missing something?"

"Not really," he drawls and turns away. Works every time.

He gets through another two rows, finding items from their list and items that should be _on_ their list, if only they'd remembered ahead of time, dumping in the cart that creaks like a dying thing whenever he pushes it a little too hard on the left side. It's _easier_ to shop like this, particularly since the market is filled with so many people that it's something of a social event instead of just a place to find dinner, but halfway up the third row, John gives in and wheels the cart around.

Two and a half rows is long enough.

"And this, oh, you'll love this," Rodney coos to the blue-wrapped bundle in his arms. He's brilliant with glee, a star come to rest on plain old earth, blinding everyone with a happiness John rarely finds outside of small children. He's not bouncing, at least, although by the way his legs sometimes twitch, he wants to. "This is Jamaican Blue," Rodney explains to his rapt audience, "it's mellow and very, very smooth. Oh, a little more than that."

The last is addressed to the faux-barrista who recognizes a caffeine junkie when he sees one, and simply adds another scoop-full of beans. He doesn't object when Rodney leans even closer to the glass separator, staring at the puddle of beans like he's counting each one.

"The real trick," he says, "is learning which types of coffee can be ground beforehand and frozen, and which must be ground fresh, for maximum intake enjoyment. This is a blend that freezes well, so we'll get it ground, please."

"Isn't it a little early to expose him to the wonders of caffeine?"

John starts, so caught up in Rodney lecturing that he didn't notice the tall, elegant woman who's now hovering over Rodney's left shoulder. She's brunette, but the hair is short and neatly trimmed in a deceptively simple style, her clothing tastefully refraining from screaming wealthy, just barely, and her smile is so incredibly predatory that John is groping at his thigh between one exhalation and the next, searching for the pointed teeth she has to have filed down.

Another one. Great.

"Hm?" Rodney leans back, taking a neat little side-step that saves him from bumping into her. "Well, one can never start learning the essentials of life too early."

The woman laughs, one hand fluttering towards Rodney's arm without ever quite touching. "Still, it isn't wise to give caffeine to a baby. You haven't been giving him any, have you? It could stunt his growth."

"Her."

"I'm sorry?" Some of the smug, of-course-I-know-better tone leaks out at the apparent non-sequitor.

"It could stunt _her_ growth, not that I'd let it because while her genes do indicate something above average height, my mother was quite petite and I'm certainly not going to weight the genetic dice any more than they already are."

The woman's hand comes to rest at her side. "Oh. Well, then, aren't you the caring father."

Rodney gives her a squint-eyed look, the one that makes him look a little slow and stupid around the edges. That usually _encourages_ his potential suitors, now certain they've found what they're looking for.

Only John knows it's Rodney's way of attempting to visually determine brain damage.

He just barely turns his chuckle into a cough.

Rodney's head immediately snaps up and around, more finely tuned than any missile guidance system. Not that that's particularly _hard_ to better, even including Ancient tech. "Are you sick?" Rodney demands, shoulders turning without coming closer. "You better not be sick. I _told_ you not to take that walk in the rain, but no, you have to disregard my sage advice and go _running in the rain_ like a twenty year old with no self-preservation at all. You are not allowed to get sick!"

"I'm not getting sick, Rodney," John drawls patiently. The woman is now staring at him, and idly, he wonders if this is how women feel most of the time: her gaze is locked onto his chest, unable to look anywhere else for a solid five or six seconds. He has to resist the urge to fiddle with the knot on his shoulder, resettling something that's already perfectly comfortable.

Ambling closer, John parks the cart out of the way and scoops Rodney's burden up and away. "Hey, sweetheart," he says, kissing her cheek with a smack that makes her giggle, small arms waving happily. "Did you have fun learning all about Daddy's addiction?"

"Support the head, support the head!"

John ignores Rodney's frantic rant -- unchanging despite Katie being more than old enough to support her own big, squishy-pink head, covered by only a few wispy strands of pure spun gold -- bouncing her around a little longer before tucking into the sling that looks _almost_ like the mutli-colored, brocaded contraptions he's seen a few women wear.

It's Athosian and a hell of a lot more useful than just a swath of cloth, but nobody but him and Rodney know that.

Rodney's glowering at him, companion completely forgotten. John hasn't, and he gives her the same sharp-edged smile he's seen more than a few girlfriends and wives -- not necessarily his -- use before. "Got your liquid crack?" he says without taking his eyes off of her.

The problem is bearable only because it happens to _both_ of them in equal measure, and neither one tends to realize it until the other is there, practically dyed green with jealousy.

Rodney blinks, letting out a confused noise as he snatches up his freshly ground bag of coffee. "It is not crack, you know I hate when you call it that around her. What if she _remembers_ and uses it somewhere? Besides, coffee is perfectly legal."

John rolls his eyes, smiling 'pleasantly' as he makes sure the message gets through. Usually, there are three different reactions. The first is surprise tinged with disgust, particularly since there aren't any physical boundaries left between them any longer and they don't even _realize_ how frequently they touch and grab each other.

The second is surprise and rueful amusement.

The third is what John's seeing right now, a kind of glittering, glowing avariciousness that he's learned to avoid at all costs. Even the disgust and mostly-hidden homophobia is better than the way this category of women _wants_ and doesn't seem to care about the cost of such wanting.

Giving her the same smile he gives _anybody_ who wants to keep Rodney for their very own, John puts an arm around Rodney's shoulders and starts steering him away. "Hey, wait, let me just -- Jeez, you couldn't even let me put it in the cart?" he snaps, deftly doing just that as they amble towards the butcher counter. "If you're hungry, there are plenty of things for you to try. Like, oo, we could have that chowder, you know, the one with corn in it that you pretend you don't like but always eat half of anyway?"

"I don't like that soup," John insists, leaning over to give Rodney a kiss on the cheek.

It's about as demonstrative as they ever get, in public. It makes them both _profoundly_ uncomfortable. But they can do it, both of them fussing over Katie when she makes a hiccuping half-cry, wanting in on the snuggling she thinks they're hiding from her, Rodney's hands all over John's chest as much as they're all over their daughter, and John doesn't give one hot damn if they get looked at twice, or even three times.

They're back in Atlantis in another few weeks, for one, and for two it always makes Rodney go pink-cheeked and rosy, just like Katie, and for pretty much the same reasons.

"Soup, sappy man," Rodney orders, thumbing the soft skin underneath John's ear. "And don't say 'as you wish', you know I hate when you do that when we're on E -- when we're here, because believe it or not, Sheppard most of these people _have_ seen that movie and really _don't_ need to know what a freak you are, and oh, oh, look, they've got new tuna salad! We should try that, come over here and yes, bring her, I think it's mushy enough for Katie to try and ... "

Laughing, John lets himself be towed towards the small stand full of paper cups, blinded by fluorescent light and something else he never needs to name.


End file.
